She is there to distract,
to stretch out relaxed
and be in fact
something that detracts
from the calming acts
of meditation.

She is not the elevation
of my being,
nor the spectacular apogee
becoming
the ****** of my life.

She is not perfect,
nor should she be,
nor is she
responsible for
completing me.

Though time may take
old lines and replace
them on her aging face
with strange wrinkles,
and body parts will sag,
and heartbeats will lag
till mortality steals
all that we are,
emotions and will.

She is not the best
or worse of anything.
She merely exists,
passing complexity
temporary curiosity
that will not sate
or devour me completely
no matter how pretty
she may be.

Grief is an old country song,
sorrow spoken in simple broken
verses accompanied by
the tears of hillbillies
and their family as they cry.

It is reaching for forgotten values,
beseeching preachers for what
tired seekers cease to believe
because innocence has been
abused and deceived.

It is hard work paid against
the balance that will never
ever break even again.

Calloused hands and hearts
muddy boots and ***** pants,
from reaping what we plant,
while others are sowing
the hate that they are growing.

Hymnals become pleasant memories
of a place that no longer holds
much power over me.
Nostalgia makes me smile
uneasily as I rise to see
the past played out
then fading from me.

Grief is knowing that
I cannot make my way back
or revisit the people
who are currently missing
from life’s short stay,
in this world’s late stage
spinning plate play.

You are soft sprinkles
of rain dropping on
my hot tin skin,
that sweet drumming
as I long to let
you fall in,
not minding one bit
if in loving you
I am giving up
all that I ever
hoped I be.

You are the instrumental
that I never heard,
that brings with it
my own unspoken words,
tiny syllables and brand new
ideas I long to share with
all who wouldn’t mind
hearing it,

as I go to sleep
letting go of reality
you are the verse of poetry
whispered in dreams
and sought in waking,
even though I know
it brings with it
a certain aching.
I have forgotten it
but still long to recall
the whole poem,
heartbreak and all.

You are soft sprinkles
of rain dropping on
my hot tin skin,
that sweet drumming
as I long to let
you fall in,
not minding one bit
if in loving you
I am giving up
all that I ever
hoped I be.

You are the instrumental
that I never heard,
that brings with it
my own unspoken words,
tiny syllables and brand new
ideas I long to share with
all who wouldn’t mind
hearing it,

as I go to sleep
letting go of reality
you are the verse of poetry
whispered in dreams
and sought in waking,
even though I know
it brings with it
a certain aching.
I have forgotten it
but still long to recall
the whole poem,
heartbreak and all.

The sic dream specter,
plays out that bout
flowing freely,
while I am being
constrained
by a realm which
is not logic.

Master Morpheus
slides gracefully
before us,
sand in hand
to help this man
stay asleep.

Armageddon
follows me
from the waking
world to dreams
and back out
to chaotic scenes.

Reality
as decreed
by the dark deeds
of ill-intended individuals.

They are much worse
than that which pursues me
while I am sleeping.

Yet, I long to awaken
to a better day,
and a brighter place.

Praise be
to nature
and all of her
eccentricities,

of pink petals
softly floating,
then falling in
a cool blue pool
that children
go swimming in
on the weekend.

Of varying
degrees
from sweltering
to freezing
offering
strange variety
to make life
more exciting.

To tree sloths,
wombats,
and platypuses
who amuse us
with their
eternal cuteness.

For the breath
that I exhale
that feeds
the trees
what they need
to also breath
and cycles back
oxygen that
I need to
take another breath.

I am grateful
for all of that
and so much more.

Sleep deprived
the thief decides
to steal the twinkle
in her eyes.

Knowing that
verdant glow
that grows spring,
that emerald
green scene
behind nature.

Dulling and dimmer
the color loses its
vibrant glimmer
thinning till
pigments pass away
like a corpse’s
cold gray figure.

Fatigue is the villain,
stealer of vibrancy
or has it been misplaced,
the flush of life
that once painted
her angelic face?

Reality becomes
very numb
as she is struck dumb
then succumbs
to the joylessness
of a colorless
world.

What a weird wonderland
as Alice comes so close to see
the strange curiosity that is me,
an inverted reflection,
while I see negative space
filled by her body, face,
and the thoughts she traces
out for me.

your words are a pampered art; combination of an italian riviera tide along with french reverie aura